


Saving London's Children

by The_Butterfly_Mistress



Series: London's Children (Temporary Name) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Paternal Lestrade, Protective John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Butterfly_Mistress/pseuds/The_Butterfly_Mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The drive was slow with traffic, and Greg kept taking glances in the backseat to make sure the lump was still breathing. "You want to tell me your names now?" He gave a sideways look. There was silence for a long moment, but patience was awarded. "I'm John," he answered, grimacing in pain, as the medications began to wear off. "My friend…his name is, Sherlock.""</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saving London's Children

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: Don't own Sherlock. This story is unbetaed and was written within a couple hours. All mistakes are my own. I'm considering it a oneshot for now. If its liked enough I may write more, if the mood strikes me to add more, I might do it even if its not well received. That being said, I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if it fits your fancy. God Bless.

Saving London’s Children

It was the eyes that always disturbed everyone that got close enough to look in them. Stormy, grey clouds that had seen too much for the young boy that held them would haunt Lestrade until the day he died. It had only been a brief glimpse, as the small hoodlum made an escape with his older accomplice. The child had looked back, lip between beige teeth, uncertain. If the older boy hadn’t grabbed the younger’s arm and started ensuring his continued movement, Greg was sure he would have caught up to them. They had made off with food and a few miscellaneous objects from the Tesco Shop again; it was the fourth time that month. It was always the same mart, always once a week, just never the same day or time. 

Other stores were hit, by other ragamuffins, varying in age, but they were usually more careless in their patterns and were easily caught. They were all street kids, clearly, and the detective could hardly fault them too much, but stealing was still a crime. Most of the youngsters, when caught, would be placed in an orphanage, the older lot would be hauled off to a juvenile detention center. It wasn’t always ideal, but it was better than letting them stay on the streets.

Greg Lestrade didn’t bother to chase the duo for too long; they were lightning fast and seemed to disappear on the spot. He returned to the shopkeeper and informed him that he had lost them, gave him his apologies, and promised to keep suits around the area on the lookout. If he were honest with himself, these calls always burdened his heart, more than any other. Coming face to face with the fact that so many of London’s children were on their own, without family, a roof, or a hot meal, it was horrifying. Most people around them didn’t seem to care enough to notice that homeless children were amongst them, as long as they weren’t effected, who cared? The apathy could be found even amongst some of his own team, it was sickening.

With a sigh, Lestrade wrote up his report and turned out his lamp light. He usually stayed well into the night, nothing but quiet and loneliness awaited him at home, however, tonight he was going to start investigating all the twists and turns he saw those kids make, see if he can find where he lost them at. Maybe there were some clues strewn about that could finally lead him to those haunted eyes and his sandy haired companion.

Crumbs, crumbs, in the form of marshmallows are what caught Greg’s eye, leading a trail from the third turn they had made. Obviously one of their stolen goods had been torn open and it was ironic that it was leading him to his lost boys, similar to the story of Hansel and Gretel. He didn’t ponder that thought too much, just followed the sugary trail. It came to a stop at a dead end, in between two apartment buildings, and he highly doubted that they had gone inside either one of them, as both buildings were fully occupied, and none of the occupants would just let raggedy children they couldn’t identify inside.

If they couldn’t go forward, backward, or inside, that left the only option of going up. So, up he went on the fire escape and on to the roof. Not a child to be found, but that might explain their sudden disappearances. It’s an option he would have to keep in mind for next time, the following week. In the meantime, exhausted and hungry, he went home and tried to let his thoughts drift to a way he could help the homeless population of youth.

The next time didn’t wait a week, it was the second mistake to have been made and the most fatal. Two days later, it was chilly, damp morning, and Lestrade found himself being called out to the Tesco he’d been at before. The shopkeeper, smirking triumphantly, held a lad with sandy blonde hair, and an angry scowl, by the scruff of the neck. The boy’s hands had been tied with a rope behind his back, and he struggled immensely against the binds and his captor. As the old detective neared, the child’s eyes widened and he put forth a stronger effort to escape. Lestrade recognized him to be the elder of the two scraggly accomplices. He knelt down to be eye level with the ward and spoke in gentle tones.  
“Hey there, lad,” he greeted, trying not to spook him, dutifully ignoring the eyes of his team. No doubt they would have simply hauled him off to the station, but that would have gotten them nowhere. “Can you tell me your name”

“Where’s your partner in crime, huh? Is he here somewhere making off with what you’re after, while you play a distraction?” The shopkeeper’s grip tightened as he pulled at the delinquent’s neck. The boy grimaced and then steeled his features.

Lestrade reached out and grabbed his shoulder, taking the kid in his charge officially. “Donovan, will you take Mr. Archer aside and have him fill out a statement?” Trusting her to do as ordered, he led his charge out to his car. “Now, how about a name? Can you do that for me?” At the tightlipped silence, he tried again. “What about what you came after? What did you forget on your last trip or suddenly find yourself in need of?”

Ocean-blue eyes cast downward, he shifted from foot to foot, as if weighing whether or not he should just tell the officer and get it over with, or if he would be able to risk an escape. Donovan came up to them before the child could decide, and handed her boss a roll of gauze.

“Victim says this is what the runt had tried to take before he grabbed him.” She eyed their suspect with disdain, and sniffed pointedly, as if the odor emanating was adding insult to injury. 

“Thank you, Sally,” he dismissed. Eyeing the white strips, he became worried, quickly checking over the kid in front of him. “Are you hurt?” He looked malnourished, certainly filthy, had a fair amount of bruises and scars, but no blood in sight. “Is your friend injured? Is that why you need this?” He held out the possession to the boy.

He eyed the inspector with distrust and then gazed upon the desired object. Lestrade could see the decision being made and being enacted before he had time to even think about reacting. Quickly, the gauze was snatched from his hand with teeth, just as a knee sprung forward for an attack. With Lestrade down, the kid took off as fast as his legs would carry him. Donovan rushed over to him and helped him up, while a few of his men hightailed it after their suspect. Greg waved off her concern as he gulped some air in; pushing past the pain he joined in the chase. However, he didn’t follow the trail the boy had led his men down; he went to the dead end and climbed the ladder to the roof. Settling down behind a chimney stoop, he waited.

He startled when he heard a gunshot off in the distance and inwardly cursed his men if they actually fired at that preteen kid. No more than 15 minutes passed by when his ears caught wind of groaning metal. Someone was making their way up to him. Crouched low and ready, when feet hit the concrete of the roof, he jumped out, ready to grab the prize. Unfortunately, his prize was slouched against the area near where he came up, holding a bleeding wound, grimacing in pain and gulping in air to fight off passing out.  
Again, Lestrade found himself cursing his team at their thoughtlessness. Placing his hands before him, placating, he approached the wounded child slowly. Terrified orbs watched him, resigned to his fate, and fell unconscious where he sat. Lestrade called for an ambulance and rode with criminal turned patient. As he waited in the family room for the surgeon to come and give him news, he got the story and laid into the officer who thought it a good idea to shoot a kid, suspending him on the spot. The hospital had nearly kicked him out for all the yelling.

The surgery only lasted a couple hours and there had been minimum damage, at least nothing a few months of therapy wouldn’t fix. It was another hour and half before the anesthesia wore off and he was able to see and try and talk to the groggy patient. As soon as he saw Lestrade, the boy tried to escape, not evening noticing his new handicap. Thankfully, drugged up, he was easy to apprehend.

“Easy kid, I know those drugs are good, but you’re going to hurt yourself even further if you don’t relax. I’m not going to let anything more happen to you, I promise,” he assured, patting the dirty, matted head.

“No, no, you don’t understand, please, please, let me go,” came the first response, barely whispered. Greg had to strain hard to hear.

“What I don’t understand? Son, sit up and talk to me properly. Tell me what’s going on.” A nurse came in as the heart monitor beeped erratically. “Settle down now, lad. She’ll have to sedate you if you don’t, for your own good. Then it will be even longer before you can get done what you need to.”

The logic provided had those blue eyes looking at him in a panic. “You can’t! Please, let me go. I need to get to him.”

“Tell me where he is and I’ll go get and him and bring him to you,” he tried.

“He won’t come with you, he only trusts me. Please, I need to get to him!” Again the preteen tried to get out of the bed, only to be held back by Lestrade.

“How about you tell me and we’ll all come back here so you can recover and he can be treated too?” He wasn’t sure that he would technically be able to do that, but he had to try something. It seemed to appease his charge, cause he nodded frantically. Lestrade attributed the ease of persuasion to the drugs the kid was still heavily under the influence of.

After a heated discussion and much protest, the patient was put in a sling and allowed to go with Greg, under the strict orders that once the other young one was found, that they were both to be brought straight back to the hospital for medical attention and watch. With much hesitation, even drugged, the sandy haired child took Lestrade’s hand and allowed the officer to buckle him in to the police car. The officer followed the directions given to him and found the “home” of his sought out escapees. The anxious boy beside him only waited long enough for Lestrade to unbuckle him before he was falling out of the car and running off toward the underneath of a bridge, mere feet away from a sewer piped. Greg raced after him, trying not to breathe through his nose, and ran faster when he saw the injured child fall.

When he got closer, he could see that the boy hadn’t passed out, but had dropped to his knees beside a younger child, and had gathered him up in his good arm. He bared his teeth at Lestrade’s approach, growling as he protectively curled around his friend. Hands placed about before him once more, he kneeled before them both. Producing the gauze from his jacket pocket, he looked over what he could see of the smaller form to find what needed to be wrapped. Both arms had been gnawed on, and at least one palm had deep nail marks and grooved. He got to work, wrapping what he could reach, the blood had already clotted, but it made Lestrade feel better to bandage them anyway.

“Ok, let’s get you two healed up, shall we?” He gathered the unconscious child, from his hesitant friend and one safely secured, made their way back to the hospital as instructed. Before they left, Lestrade made sure to pack his truck with what belongings he could see of theirs.

The drive was slow with traffic, and Greg kept taking glances in the backseat to make sure the lump was still breathing. “You want to tell me your names now?” He gave a sideways look.

There was silence for a long moment, but patience was awarded. “I’m John,” he answered, grimacing in pain, as the medications began to wear off. “My friend…his name is, Sherlock.”

Lestrade nodded. Before he could ask another question, John asked one of his own. “Are you going to separate us? Send me to jail and put him in an orphanage?” He bit his lip and looked back at his sleeping friend. He winced when he made out of the tear tracks on the dirty face. No doubt he thought he’d been abandoned after so long.

“No.” A short and sweet reply, which Lestrade didn’t know where came from. He suspected that he’d do or say anything to reassure the boys he’d been looking for several months. He just hoped he wouldn’t promise anything that he couldn’t keep. John wasn’t old enough yet to be put in juvenile detention, at least he didn’t look like it, and he couldn’t really guarantee that one orphanage would take them both, but he would try his hardest to keep them together, of that he was certain. “How old are you both?”

Another hesitant pause, “I’m twelve and Sher’s eight,” he replied. “Are you going to keep us or let us go?”

Lestrade raised a brow, daring to take his eyes off the road for a second to see if the kid was seriously asking that. “You’re not going back on the streets, John. I won’t allow that, end of discussion.”

“Then you’ll keep us yourself?” There was a slight bit of hope mixed with that defiant question. “No one else is going to let us stay together. Not after all the trouble we caused…”

“We’ll see,” Greg told him vaguely, a lump forming in his throat from what he was contemplating.

Once at the hospital, Greg had them move John and Sherlock into the same room, and told them that both boys were under his guardianship for the time being. He wanted to be kept informed, especially if he was going to go through with his foolhardy idea. John reluctantly explained that his friend had a bit of autism and took to biting himself when his fits came on. If he woke up to strangers he was going to go into another spell, so they allowed the beds to be close enough, that it almost made one large bed with the side rails unlocked.

For safety of both patient and staff, they kept Sherlock sedated while they attempted to rehydrate and dress the wounds. John watched their every move and would only accept more pain medication once they were through with his friend. Lestrade promised to keep watch over them both, so they could rest without fear and if one of them woke up, he’d rouse the other.

“Promise, Mr. Lestrade?”

“Yeah, lad, just rest now.” He hushed and soothed the blonde to sleep. Once he was sure that the boy had drifted off to dreamland he stepped as far away as he could, without leaving, to call into work. He informed his boss of the situation and requested time off. It was granted. He then broached the topic of possibly taking custody of both boys, in which his boss lectured him and then told him to really think about rather than let his emotions con him into something he might later regret. Lestrade had to concede it was a rash decision, but one he was pretty set on. Before the call ended his boss told him,

“You’re a good man, Lestrade, with a big heart. If you want to give those boys your heart, you have my full support, but don’t give it to them and later decide that fathering two damaged boys is not for you after all. Take some time, think about it. Talk to them about it. They may not want that. You have plenty of days of leave. Take them, see what happens. Keep me informed.” 

He sat by the bedsides, thinking, making plans, praying. He left only briefly to stop by the gift store and pick up two teddy bears, one beige and one brown and black mixed. When the sun peaked out from its cover of darkness, he was sure he was making the right decision, and he would win the hearts of those kids, if it was the last thing he did.


	2. Pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Still don't own Sherlock. I was informed that I had to continue on as my friend's life depended on it, so I wrote a second chapter for this story. I may make more, depending. I'm not as fond of this chapter as I am the other, but I hope you like it. Still unbetaed. If you like it or have any thoughts, leave a review. Thank you, and hope you enjoy.

It was well into the afternoon before anyone stirred in room 321. Nurses had been in and out throughout the night, monitoring, poking, and prodding, but there had not been so much as a peep. Even the good detective had been able to doze for a few hours. Unfortunately, the calm and peace couldn’t last.

Sherlock was the first to awake, in the unfamiliar area. The soft bedding, the sterile feel and smell of his surroundings distressed him greatly. Had someone found him and taken him away? Had John left him? No, no, no. He didn’t like the texture of the sheets, they itched his skin. The smell was horrendous and nauseating. The repetitive rocking motion was blissful and calmed him, but the ear piercing whine was torturous. Where was he? The smell, the beeping noise in the background, the itchy bed clothes, he was in a hospital. Why? He didn’t like hospitals; he would never willingly go to one. Doctors are cruel, they poke and prod and fake smile. No, no, no. He wasn’t happy. This wasn’t right. Where was John? _I need John!_

John and Lestrade were roused by a keening noise, with every other breath John’s name being murmured. Without hesitation, Greg was out of his seat and going to his young charge’s aid, before John could tell him not to. The first touch halted the whimpers and moans, and an agonized scream replaced them. As if burnt, Greg jerked his hand back and stumbled backwards, hope that distance would still the boy. Nurses rushed in, needle ready with a light sedative to resupply the tranquility, but before they could get to close, John was hovering over his friend, whispering quietly. The preteen was wrapping every inch of himself around Sherlock, using his body as protective shield.

Slowly, the wails quietened to moans that quietened to whimpers, which then in turn slowed to sniffles as tears continued to stream down the impossibly sharp cheeks. His fingers were covered in saliva from where he’d been chewing on his fingers, the blood from the wounds swirling with the drool to make a pink mixture.

Lestrade held back the nurses and sent them back out the room, things were returning back to normal, without the use of drugs, and the fewer people in the room Sherlock didn’t know, the better. No sense in scaring the boy beyond repair. He had enough to take in already. He stood off to the side watching his two wards interact, listening, and learning.

John carefully took the bleeding limb from his friend’s mouth, ignoring the excessive amount of tinted drool. He placed the hand into his with the injured arm. He wiped the spit off onto the sheets and raised it once more to the tear streaked cheek, frowning when the contact was met with a flinch. “Sherlock,” John called, soft, concerned. “Sherlock, it’s me, John. You’re alright.”

Stormy eyes, pools overflowing still, rose to look John in the face before the gaze dropped back to the hand that held his own. “John?”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, Sher. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock flung himself at the older boy, burrowing a snotty nose into the other boy’s gown, gauzy arms wrapping around the slim girth. John encircled him in return, as much as he could with only his left arm, steadfastly denying that the pressure on his right arm was causing a great deal of pain. Sherlock was more important and he made effort to squeeze the shoulder he could reach.

John’s gown wasn’t any less itchy than the stupid sheets, but it was John, and Sherlock would tolerate the incessant tickling for John. John hadn’t left him. He’d come back for him after all. Why, then, were they at a hospital?

As if reading his mind, John supplied, “You hurt yourself again, Sher. Your arms. I had to go back for bandages, but I got caught.” The slight form he held tensed and he rushed to soothe. “It’s okay though, it turned out alright. Mr. Lestrade, he helped me get you help. I got to even ride in the front seat of a real police car!” He exclaimed, trying to make it sound more interesting and fun than what it really had been _. It’s for Sherlock_ , he reminded himself. The boy was a dang genius in his own right though, and could read through every lie. _Don’t even know why I bother, really. Cause I gotta try for Sherlock, that’s why_.

“We’re too young to go to jail, and no orphanage will take us together, John,” Sherlock’s voice was sullen, but clear, as if he hadn’t just flipped out them. The little imp rubbed the mucus and tears on to John’s gown, successfully cleaning his face. He leaned back from the embrace to smirk at his handy work. His roaming eyes took in the body fluid art on the front of his friend’s gown, and then noticed the bony arm he had leaned against was in a sling. He frowned and followed the limb up to the injured shoulder. He gasped and reached out to touch, as if to check it was real, but his hand was intercepted by John’s other.

“I’m ok. Just a scratch.” He didn’t tell the young boy how much it ached, and how scared he’d been, how even though he got wounded going after an item for Sherlock’s wellbeing, nothing in the world would ever make him blame him. Sherlock could read that himself, there wasn’t even point in hiding it.

When it appeared all was right in their world, or as close as it could currently be under the circumstances, Lestrade approached them from his corner. Steel eyes sprang to him at the first step and he could seem the form tense and prepare to spring from the bed at first sign of threat. John looked over at him, hand placed on Sherlock’s knee to keep him still. He stopped two feet from the bed and took a seat in the chair beside it. “Hello, Sherlock, it’s nice to finally meet you.” He smiled softly, tone gentle, voice low.

“This is Mr. Lestrade, Sher. He’s the one that helped us. He says he’s going to make sure no one separates us,” John informed the younger, as a matter of fact.

The derisive snort was not comforting in the slightest, but wasn’t unexpected. He allowed the calculating gaze to assault every inch of him, and forced his façade to remain calm and open. When the analysis ended, Sherlock seemed more at ease, but didn’t stop watching him like a hawk, if Lestrade so much as twitched.

“You can call me Greg, if you wish.” He pulled the chair closer. “Now-“ Before he could continue, Sherlock popped up.

“You’re a detective, recently promoted. You’re single, live alone, and have a heart for kids, especially ones you perceive to be less fortunate that most of the population. Once we’re better, following your good conscience, you’ll place us into the “system”, instead of allowing us to return to what you believe is a misfortunate lifestyle.” The contempt held for Lestrade and the so called ‘system, did not go unnoticed. “Am I wrong?” He answered his own question, rather than allowing either one to attempt to. “Of course not, I’m never wrong,” he snarled, lip curled.

Brows raised in shock, he wasn’t sure on how to respond to that tirade. “Wow, you know a lot of big words for your age, bud. Quite the smart lad, aren’t ya?” He hid his grin at the confliction that splayed across the young boy’s face: preen at the praise or scoff at the choice of focus. “You are, however, not completely right,” he informed him and chuckled at the slight indignation on the prepubescent features. John watched him curiously; obviously content to not take the lead.

“What?” he spluttered, a glint of interest in his eyes. His less injured, nubby hand grasped at John’s sleeve, wrinkling the material.

Greg’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I am a police officer,” he confirmed, “promoted to detective inspector. I’m single, live alone, and there will always be a special place in my heart for kids. You’re not going back on the streets, so long as I have any say in the matter. However, I don’t have any intention to place you in the foster care system, unless it is your desire to be there.”

Both boys stared at him in surprise and suspicion at the implication, one, wary, the other with a bit of hope. “And I suppose you’re going to personally see to us, then?” the haughty question earned him a clip to the ear.

“Sherlock! Goodness, be nice will ya?” John’s fond exasperation scolded.

Lestrade ignored it and answered, “Well, yeah. I suppose that’s the idea, if you’re up for giving it a go.”

“How that supposed to work, Mr. Lestr- Greg…?” John asked, looking him straight in the eye, as if watching for any dishonesty.

“Well, I’ll get temporary custody of you boys, shouldn’t be too hard, and we’ll just test the waters. If we all agree to it, when the time is right, I’ll adopt you.” The explanation seemed to appease the sandy haired boy, who clearly seemed more rational.

“Yeah, right,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ll get tired of us, or won’t be able to deal with me and hand me off to somebody else. Or, if no one will take us, you’ll find another way to keep me in line. Lock me up, or cutting, or beating, or, or, or, send John Away. NO! NO, You can’t! You can’t send John away, I’ll be good! I promise.” What started out strong and defiant quickly went downhill as he started to speak trancelike, until it dissolved into hysterics and miserable, penitent, pleas and promises.

John grabbed the closest of Sherlock’s wrists, restraining him from the expected self-harm, as Lestrade, leapt from his seat to wrap the boy into a bear hug. The frantic machines alerted nurses to the panic, who burst through the door, further sending Sherlock into fight mode. Lestrade glared at them to leave, and assured them that he felt confident to handle an malnourished child. He’d dealt with hysterical children in his line of work, far too often for his liking.

Sherlock fought him, struggled in his grip, screamed, and apologized over and over. Greg rode the waves of panic, not letting loose, even when a small head slammed into his chest. Eventually, the slight form relaxed in his hold and Lestrade forced his heart to slow down. Panic was catching and he didn’t want a repeat performance.

“Miss, grab that bag by the door and hand it here, please,” Lestrade requested of the remaining nurse. She did as asked, setting it on the mattress before taking her leave. She’d give them a moment before calling for three meals to be brought up, and the doctor for an examination.

With one arm still wrapped around the putty in his arms, he tipped the bag over, spilling out the contents. John’s eyes lit up at the stuffed animals and he quickly grabbed the brown and black one, hugging it close to him. Greg smiled at the sight and grabbed the beige one, pressing it to the little boy he held. Sherlock grabbed it, holding it arm’s length as he examined it closely. Determining it fine he brought it up to rub at his cheek.

The cuteness of the endearing scene did not diminish the severity of what had occurred and it would need to be addressed. Lestrade gathered up his wits, and hoped he was doing the right thing. “Sherlock, sunshine, I’m not going to do any of that.” It wasn’t lost on him that even John had looked sick at Sherlock’s mutterings. He didn’t know how long his boys had been on the streets, not likely to have been long, all things considered. He wasn’t sure how long they had been together, either, long enough to grow dependent, but not long enough to know all of the background details, it would seem. “We will discuss rules, and punishments, and whatnot, when you’re both out of the hospital and settled into my home, or if you would prefer, we can do it a bit later, but before we leave here. Nonetheless, I can promise you right now, I won’t, and won’t allow anyone else to, abuse or harm you in any manner. I promised to keep you and John together as best as I can and I don’t say things I don’t mean, understand?” He felt the little head nod against his chest. He looked toward John to make sure he understood those words for him too. The responding nod put him at ease. It wasn’t that easy of course, they would need reminding, no doubt, but he’d worry about that bridge when he got to it.

“Thank you, for the bear, sir,” John said, expression quite serious, giving a pointed look to Sherlock too. The parroted appreciation had John grinning at him.

“You’re welcome.”

About that time, a trolley came through with trays smelling of chicken and chips. A nurse deposited three trays to the room, smiling kindly at them, and informing them that a doctor would be in shortly. After much prodding, much more than it should have been for half-starved boys, they all tucked into the warm meal.

Sherlock poked at the chicken, but nibbled on the cookie, content. John, once started nearly inhaled the chicken and chips on his plate. He left his cookie alone and took Sherlock’s, who glared at him. John then put a fry in to grasp to replace the pinched sweet. Sherlock begrudgingly ate half of the food on his tray before John allowed him back his cookie and gave the boy his own.

Lestrade’s stomach protested food after the panic attack he’d dealt with, the words making his insides turn. However, he ate even so, to be an example and put the kids at ease. He would need the energy later he was sure.

Soon after lunch was finished, the ER doctor, Dr. Hannigan, came in to check John’s shoulder and Sherlock’s arms. Lestrade was relieved to hear that they were healing nicely. Dr. Hannigan ordered a sponge bath for John, as he didn’t want the dressing wet, and told Greg that Sherlock should be ok to get washed in the bathtub. She left an ointment for Sherlock’s arms and hands and left to get a nurse for John.

John’s sense of modesty took a large hit and his protests at the nurse undressing him and washing him went unheard. Sherlock, however, Greg found out, had no such inhibitions. He allowed the inspector to untie the gown and help him into a warm bath and wash him. It would seem that the younger boy was actually fond of his bath time, which was a relief. Greg laughed as he was splashed and splashed the imp in return. Sherlock told him after a bit of teasing, that he wanted to be a pirate when he grew up, because pirates were cool, and water was fun.

The only portion of bathing Sherlock had issues with was washing his hair. The boy had beautiful curls atop his head that had not seen scissors in some time. They were full of tats that had Sherlock scowling at him when his fingers found one. He’d have to remedy that issue when they left the hospital.

Afterwards, with both kids clean and resettled into bed, Greg made a phone call. “Hey, Sally, could I get you to bring me few spare changes of clothes, and a toiletry bag? Yeah, at Barts, with the boys. Yes, Sally, the ones that we caught. Just bring me some clothes would ya.” He ended the call with a sigh and sat back in his chair. Both boys watched him, expectantly, so Greg found the remote and handed it over to John.

The older boy tried to settle on some cartoon of sorts, but Sherlock deemed it below their intelligence, so instead of trying it again, he passed the remote over to him. Sherlock found a documentary on seahorses and snuggled up to John. “This should be interesting, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” The reply was longsuffering, but there was no complaint.

The night ended on a quiet note. Sally brought him a duffel bag field with clothes and anything else he could need. She also made a special stop to make amends for her earlier behavior and brought the boys a couple suckers and tooth brushes with bubblegum toothpaste. After dinner, Greg helped John do his teeth and let Sherlock go do his own.

The nurses brought in a cot for him to stretch out, seeing as he was going to be with them until they were released. There were nightmares that neither would speak about, but Greg was going to have to address sometime soon. All in all, he considered it a successful day. John and Sherlock were on the physical mend, they seemed to like him well enough, and that was a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: Still don't own Sherlock. I was informed that I had to continue on as my friend's life depended on it, so I wrote a second chapter for this story. I may make more, depending. I'm not as fond of this chapter as I am the other, but I hope you like it. Still unbetaed. If you like it or have any thoughts, leave a review. Thank you, and hope you enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: Don't own Sherlock. This story is unbetaed and was written within a couple hours. All mistakes are my own. I'm considering it a oneshot for now. If its liked enough I may write more, if the mood strikes me to add more, I might do it even if its not well received. That being said, I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if it fits your fancy. God Bless.


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